


The Temptation of Dreams

by CaptainRilee



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: D&D certainly did, F/M, Fuck Canon, One Shot, first fic I ever wrote for this ship, fuck D&D, so imma post it and be done with it, this has haunted be for nearly a year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 09:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainRilee/pseuds/CaptainRilee
Summary: “I have a dream that visits so often, if it wasn’t part memory, I’d think it was a premonition.”Reunited at Winterfell Sansa and Sandor share a moment, a memory and a confession.





	The Temptation of Dreams

Sansa started awake at the sound of the knock. Disoriented, she called out, "A moment.” 

The fatigue was heavy on her, she pressed her fingers to her eyes in an attempt to chase away the fog...the images. She hadn’t even realized she had fallen asleep at her desk, table really, covered in scrolls.  

Abruptly, she stood. 

“Enter,” she called again. 

She heard him before she saw him. The Hound’s steps were heavy and she had grown used to their cadence in the stone corridors of King’s Landing. He walked through the doorway, stooping to clear the mantel. His armor gleamed in certain patches and was dulled in others. The falling snow kept the surfaces clean, but it turned the ground to mud where it hadn’t yet frozen. If the soldiers took a fall during training, the whole hall knew by nightfall, all one had to do was look for the mud stains. Clegane’s armour was gleaming, of course he was untouched. Brienne had gone to White Harbor as a supply escort and wouldn’t return until the morning. 

_Or was it today? What time is it?_  

“Lady Sansa,” his voice was gravel and steel, “your presence is needed in the hall, the lordlings are arguing over table arrangements.” The look on his face clearly demonstrated his opinions of their antics. 

She laid her hands on the table, flattening the month’s grain inventory, tithe records for the last summer, and an old missive from Dragonstone, Jon’s words scratched across the parchment in slightly uneven lines. Her breath dashed out of her too violently to be called a sigh. 

He shifted, the leather of his jerkin brushing against the steel in a whisper of song. 

“Shall I escort them to the stables where they belong?” he offered. 

That pulled a smile from her lips, albeit a small one, half surprised. 

“Winter is here,” she replied, “we can’t afford to alienate our own bannermen. God’s be good.” From her tone the blessing sounded more like a curse. Deservedly so. 

“You need rest, little bird. When was the last time you slept?” 

She met his gaze from across the table, turning the short distance into a thousand yard stare. She was certainly not little, nor a bird, any longer. _A wolf_ as she always should have been.

“Careful,” she chastened, “King’s Landing was many moons past—Winterfell is my _home…_ ” 

He inclined his head, deferential. 

“My Lady,” he responded, but his eyes continued to hang on hers. 

She looked down at the overflowing tabletop, scrolls spilling out onto the ground. She answered him anyway. 

“I have no time to rest, even when I do...sleep remains elusive.” 

He watched her carefully, she was running herself ragged at this pace. He was reluctant to praise such negligence but the defeat in her shoulders prompted him.

“You should hear how they speak of you—” she stiffened at his words, but he never paused, “they would climb the Wall with horseshoe nails and thank you for the pleasure. Dreaming up ways to be of service to you. There’s songs again in the halls, even.” 

Slowly, the knot in her gut began to loosen. Despite the warmth in her chest, the lassitude weighed heavily on her, coloring her words. “Songs, dreams...I can’t remember the last time I entertained them. I have no time for dreams anymore. Only plans.” 

Most people would take that as a dismissal, the Hound was not most people. He remained where he stood. 

She took a deep breath, struggling to master her composure in the face of weariness. The images from her dream were still so fresh, she could feel the soft warmth at her throat where there should have been steel. 

“Actually, that’s not quite true.” Her voice was soft, so soft he took a half step forward to hear her better. “I have a dream that visits so often, if it wasn’t part memory, I’d think it was a premonition.” 

Her eyes were down, thoughtful, contemplating the various pages scattered before her. She stepped out from behind her makeshift desk, keeping one hand on it as if to steady herself, reassure herself it was still there. 

“It was that night in the Red Keep,” she elaborated, “The night the world was on fire.”

Her footsteps approached the door, him, but her eyes were far away, seeing through walls and floorboards to a night long ago, “With your knife at my throat, and a song on my lips.” 

She stopped in front of him, her face was a mask of curiosity, as if wondering at the words that poured from her mouth, “Only, instead of a knife, it was your mouth…and it wasn’t a song, it was your name. Over and over again.” 

It was only then that she raised her eyes to his. They were dark, a storm of emotion, glittering with possibility. She wondered what he found in hers. 

Then he did something that surprised her. He moved. Slowly. 

He was strong, and brutal, she knew he could cleave a man in two with that longsword strapped along his spine, had seen him in the courtyard splitting wood with an ax in hand. He was also agile, quick on his feet and he never hesitated. 

So it was a wonder to her, to see his arm come up, fingers reaching out, ever so slowly, telegraphing his motion with every wasted second. 

She tipped her chin up. In defiance? To grant him better access? A question for the maesters. It didn’t stop him. 

A single fingertip pressed into her throat, to the tight airway beneath her chin, his hand was cool from the cold, not yet warmed from the fire. He hummed thoughtfully. 

_When had he removed his gloves? Had he been wearing them?_

“Was it here, little bird?” 

She swallowed, his finger followed the movement, dipping to the well between her collarbones.

“Certainly not,” she responded.

He tried again, another cool finger pressed into the tendon directly beneath her right ear. 

His hands were huge. 

“Hmm, here?” 

She never took her eyes from his, she could look all she wanted after everything she had seen. The anger that blazed in his eyes used to frighten her, but now she knew the depth of horrors to be found in a man's gaze. The Hound kept his anger well tended, tight on a leash to be freed only when and where he wanted it to go. 

She wanted to strain the reins just a bit, “You were certainly drunk that night but I had no idea you were blind.”

It worked, as she knew it would. 

His thumb came up then, pressed hard into her neck right over the place he had once rested steel. She nearly hissed in satisfaction, but it wasn’t quite right. His fingers were not cold enough to be steel and not nearly warm enough to shatter the images from her dreams that lingered like phantoms. 

He stepped in at that moment, right up to her, and she closed her eyes, willing him to bring those images to life. 

“Careful, little bird,” his breath was warm in her ear, “King’s Landing was a long time ago. The kennel may be quiet but the hounds are only resting. Best not rattle the cage.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the ambiguous ending. I couldn't decide where best to take it and other projects are calling. Thanks for clicking, let me know what you think. Be kind. This season fucked me up.


End file.
